The Parting of the Ways
by Redderhead
Summary: JOHNLOCK- John has had enough and acts rather drastically.


The Parting of The Ways

_Hello Fellow Johnlockers! I hope this story finds you all well – inspired by John's infamous fury and Sherlock's all-rounded stubbornness!_

_I still do not own anything related to Sherlock or the BBC, or John…or anyone else._

"I just can't do it anymore, Sherlock, I'm moving out!" John shouted, his stance was one of prickled anger as he stood in the doorway to their shared living room at 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and shrugged superfluously.

This saw to enraging the shorter man further, until the point that he actually vibrated a little, his face flushing red.

Without a further word between the two, John turned heel and ran up his stairs in a fury, slamming his bedroom door behind him with a brutal force.

On the other side of the door, John leaned, breathing heavily. He calmed himself for a few minutes, taking deep breaths. He hadn't meant what he had said, but it was too late to take it back now. Reluctantly, he started to pack. Briefly, he bristled as he spotted the dead badger lying dissected in the centre of his bed, but it was short lived.

Less than 20 minutes later, John was looking sadly around his bedroom, not wanting to leave. Trudging down the stairs, John put his suitcase down on the floorboard and walked into the kitchen. Sherlock was leaning over his microscope and didn't look up at John until the doctor coughed awkwardly.

"Goodbye then" John said quietly.

"You clearly do not want to leave, John. Stop this nonsense and make us a cup of tea" Sherlock said in a bored tone.

This sentence only reignited the fury in John and he narrowed his eyes at the consulting detective before turning to walk out of the kitchen, stooping to pick up his suitcase and down the stairs without so much as a look over his shoulder.

The end of the happiest times in his life.

~0~

It became quickly obvious to John that he had made a mistake. The ex-military home would not accommodate him as his recovery had been fully successful. His sister was currently in a live-in rehab centre as she had lost her flat. Sarah had a new boyfriend and it would be wholly inappropriate to ask her if he could stay over.

Eventually, John ended up sleeping at Barts hospital morgue. He had spent a few nights in his office at the clinic but there were no facilities there, at least at Barts hospital he had the use of the bathrooms, showers and the canteen for breakfast.

It had so far been a week, and John was miserable. The morgue was understandably cold and the steel beds were unbearable. One particular night, John had woken from a nightmare and immediately sat up, breathing harshly and blinking rapidly in order to come to terms with his surroundings. The nightmares revisited in times of depression, there was now rarely a night that John slept soundly.

As John sat in the minimally staffed canteen, he sipped from a polystyrene cup of tea and allowed himself to think about his best friend.

It surprised John just how much he missed Sherlock Holmes; the astounding yet insufferable consulting detective. John often wondered what case he was currently solving and it caused him intense heartache to think that he was carrying on just fine without the good doctor by his side. This heartache was excruciating beyond belief, the soldier had not felt anything like it in his 38 years, he hadn't told a soul because it was pretty obvious to John what was happening.

Love is a very strange variable. It affects some with deep sensations of horror, fear and nausea, others with an overwhelming sense of joy. John only felt miserable. Even if he did return home to Baker Street, he wouldn't dare tell Sherlock of his new found feelings toward him. Sherlock was quite obviously not introduced to his human side; he didn't feel things 'that way'. In the end, it would only cause John more pain, resulting in more heartache and depression.

So times continued, a week grew into a month, a month into six. John managed to upstage to a ward room overnight if there was one free, however, in return he was to be on call for the hospital as an overnight doctor. It was not a bad deal, but John did not make any money as he had to leave the clinic work in order to work for his accommodation.

His nightmares continued; often featuring Sherlock, every once in a while, he would wake up suddenly and see his old flatmates shadow in the room with him. This would often result in panicked tears and sleepless hours.

~0~

Six months and four days after John had moved out of his beloved home, the doctor was awoken during the night by a paramedic. Rushing into his white doctors coat, John ran with the paramedic toward the lobby. There were two casualties, one young man, in his twenties, a bullet wound to his neck; one look at that stretcher told John that the man was not going to recover. He watched as a female doctor on call – Samantha ran toward the stretcher and started to busy herself with the immediately required work.

John's eyes then fell upon the second stretcher and his jaw dropped along with his heart. The second man was a little older; he had dark curls framing a marble-white chiselled face. A face he knew so well.

"Sher-" John breathed as he pushed his way toward the moving stretcher. "Sherlock" He said firmly, grasping the mans' face with two hands on either side as he walked along side the bed. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" John tried again.

The man on the stretcher struggled for breath and coughed, his eyes remained tightly closed and blood dripped from the corner of his bow-shaped pale lips.

"What happened to him?" John asked wildly, looking toward the paramedic angrily.

"We found him in an alleyway with the young male. He was shot by the looks of things, they both were." The paramedic explained hastily as he manoeuvred the bed into A&E.

"Jo-hn" came a weak voice as John started to uncover the bullet wound, the doctors' dark eyes flashed immediately up to Sherlock's face to be greeted with a light blue stare.

"Hi Sherlock" John said with a smile. "Shh, don't talk, I need to operate on you" he cooed.

John watched in horror as a tear slipped from the corner of the detectives' sharp eye and a hand grasped his own.

"I'm sorry, John" Sherlock wheezed with an imploring look up at his doctor.

"Shh, Sherlock, everything's ok now, I'm going to make you better, you know I will" John said gently, squeezing Sherlock's hand slightly.

A small smile passed Sherlock's features. "I trust you" he murmured before passing out completely.

Two hours later, John breathed freely and wiped a sleeve across his forehead to mop up the excessive sweat. He looked over the nurses' shoulder to ensure that she correctly stitched up the wound to Sherlock's abdomen. Once that was done, John cleaned himself up as Sherlock was wheeled into the ward John was currently occupying.

Once John had completed the paperwork, he went to check on Sherlock. The wheel bed had been rolled close to John's, Sherlock lay on his back, the bed sheets pulled cosily up to his chin as the machines happily beeped away beside him.

John leaned over Sherlock and looked down at him with an unleashed fondness on his face. He knew Sherlock would be out for a while longer and there was no way he could be spotted. The soldier ran a hand through the dark curls of his friend and leaned down to place a kiss to the peaceful looking forehead beneath him before returning to his own bed.

~0~

Morning came quickly and John was awoken by the nurse as usual. He remembered the previous nights' events with a jolt and looked toward Sherlock only to find that there was no bed apart from his own.

"Where's' Sherlock?" John barked toward the nurse.

"Who?" She asked nervously.

"The shooting that came in last night" John explained hastily, getting out of bed and finding his shoes.

"He didn't make it" She said sadly.

John halted mid movement and stared at her.

"He, didn't make it?" John queried in disbelief.

"He lost too much blood, he died in the night, Dr Watson" She explained softly, watching John sit down heavily on his bed.

"How – how did they not wake me up?" John asked weakly.

"It was a neck wound. People rarely survive those. We did what we could" She said sadly, John looked up sharply.

"Neck wound?" He asked abruptly.

"Yes, he was shot in the neck. Dr Watson, is everything ok?" She asked with a hand upon the soldier's shoulder.

"No, everything is not ok, where is Sherlock? The second shooting victim, he had a bullet to the abdomen, I did the operation. He was here, in this room with me" John said getting to his feet, his heart a little jumpy after the shock he had just been given.

"There is no record of another victim, John" she said gently.

"What?" John asked again, throwing on his doctor's coat and making toward the door.

"There was no other person checked in, John." she explained once more, now looking rather worried.

John marched toward the front desk and began the search for the paperwork he had filed only a few hours ago.

After an hour of searching, John still could not find any of the paperwork he had filed. The nurses that had been with him had gone home and there was no Sherlock Holmes listed in the hospital.

John threw his suitcase together and caught a taxi to Baker Street.

Mrs Hudson answered the door after several knocks from the impatient doctor.

"John!" She cried in delight "Where have you been? We've missed you awfully. Shall I bring up some tea and biscuits?" Mrs Hudson cooed, smiling uncontrollably as she bustled the man inside.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson" John said absent-mindedly as he jumped up the staircase, eager to find Sherlock.

John burst through the living room door that revealed the devastation on the other side. Papers and case files lined the carpet, the curtains were closed and the air was thick with cigarette smoke.

Coughing slightly, John turned on the light. He stared as the light illuminated the dirty dishes, stains on the walls and broken glasses on the floor below said marks. It was obvious to even a simpleton that the inhabitant had not been of sain mind or of healthy stock for a long while. It was a while before John found what he was looking for. Lying beneath cold and damp blankets on the couch was a very sick looking Sherlock Holmes. John was by his side in a matter of moments.

"Sherlock" John sighed as he saw the fevered brow of his friend. Sitting back on his heels, the soldier ran a relieved hand over his own face before getting to work on moving Sherlock to more comfortable surroundings.

Easily picking up the detective, John carried him toward the room beyond the kitchen, only to see that there was no chance he would get him safely across the disaster zone lining the floorboard. Turning heel, John carried Sherlock up the second set of stairs into his old room. The doctor had to stop when he noticed that the room had changed. It was quite obvious that someone had been residing in there and it briefly stabbed John that Sherlock had replaced him.

Placing Sherlock in the messily made bed, John removed the detectives' blood stained clothing and wrapped him up in sheets, tucking him in solidly so that he couldn't pull out his stitches.

While the detective slept, John asked for Mrs Hudson's assistance and set about cleaning and tidying the debris and ridding the flat of smoke. After a two hour 'extreme clean' the two hard workers toasted their work with a cup of tea and a slice of Mrs Hudson's Victoria sponge, while they caught up.

John thanked Mrs Hudson profusely before she had left for the comfort of her own flat, he then headed up toward his own room to check on Sherlock.

The doctor washed Sherlock and dressed him in his own clothes, changing the sheets around him and tucking him in once more. He shook the detective awake then and forced him to take some painkillers and water.

Sherlock had been delirious and consequently no coherent conversation took place between the two men for the duration of John's care taking.

After the work had been done, John returned to an armchair in the corner of the room and sat for a while just admiring his flatmate. How he had missed that face, the excitement of the work, the shouting, the annoyance, the spontaneity. Baker Street was the only place John felt at home, and he knew why. It wasn't the building, it wasn't the furniture, it wasn't the work, or even Mrs Hudson. John only felt at home because of this man in front of him. Sherlock _needed _John in order to survive, and John needed to be needed. They were partners; they were a team, formidable and unstoppable, they were Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson. No matter how John felt about Sherlock, they had to be together no matter what, they had to be together to survive and thrive.

It was the middle of the night when John awoke; he had fallen asleep rather uncomfortably in the old armchair and his neck was not easily straightening out. Looking toward the bed with a hand supporting the back of his neck, the doctor smiled as he realised he was being watched.

"You left" Sherlock stated bluntly, the sight of him being cemented down between tightly pulled sheets amused John slightly but he tried not to show it.

"I did." John replied matter-of-factly.

"You left me because I am a terrible flatmate" Sherlock grumbled.

"You are" John concurred.

"But you still looked after me" Sherlock continued, his eyes focussing on the ceiling. "What have I done to deserve that" He asked rhetorically, making it clear that he was confused.

John coughed lightly and moved forward in the armchair to better look at his ward.

"I left, Sherlock, because you mistreated my things." John started carefully. "You helped yourself to my private belongings and destroyed my furniture, you made me worry because you didn't eat, you are rude, you are inhuman sometimes, but you are amazing at what you do" John continued, looking at his hands now, well aware of Sherlock's sharp eyes watching his every move.

"Leaving you, was the biggest mistake of my life" John murmured.

"It isn't too late you know" Sherlock replied abruptly. "Come back, make things…right again" he urged; now making John stare at him.

"You have a new flatmate" John said dumbly, waving his arms around the room they currently sat in.

"Really, John, use your brain, look closer" Sherlock said in a gravelly voice.

John looked over to the desk to see Sherlock's laptop sitting on top of it, a pen and paper beside it, a test tube rack beside that. He moved his eyes toward the open wardrobe to see two familiar suits hanging up – one Sherlock's best and the other Sherlock's second best. The shoes on the floor, the books by the door, the case folders by the bed; they were all Sherlock's.

"You've stolen my room?" John asked with a coy smile toward the detective.

Sherlock replied in kind with a smile of his own. "My room was boring" he said.

After a shared chuckle, John stood and approached his own bed, sitting down gently on one side and looking down at Sherlock.

"What happened last night?" He asked solemnly.

"I got shot" Sherlock said with an ineffective shrug as the sheets pinned his arms down tightly.

"How?" John pushed.

"I was on a chase, the new detective from the yard; Bishop, got in the way, he was young and stupid but he saved my life." Sherlock mused, his eyes once more on the ceiling. "I didn't want the police or newspapers to know that I got shot, so I phoned Mycroft, got him to take me home and remove the paperwork. I didn't think you would let me, so I didn't wake you"

"You stupid bastard" John said tiredly. "You know I'd do anything for you, even if I didn't agree with it" he continued, rubbing his tired face with both hands.

"I know that now" Sherlock said distractedly.

John smiled weakly.

"John, please, get these sheets off of me, I can't move." Sherlock huffed.

John laughed lightly before loosening the sheets.

"You are tired, you should sleep" Sherlock mused, lifting the sheets to signal John inside. "I should sleep too by all accounts."

Without one moment of hesitancy, John kicked off his shoes and jumper before lying back in the bed beside his friend.

Immediately, John's mind began to reel, he was in such close proximity to Sherlock that he could smell him and feel his warm skin, it was extremely distracting and he found that he couldn't sleep at all.

"Sleep John. We have a murderer to catch tonight and I need you full strength as I am, quite evidently, not." Sherlock said gently.

Without much thought, John turned toward Sherlock and smiled widely. "You want me back?" he asked goofily.

Sherlock laughed lightly which resulted in a slight cough and wince at his abdomen's movements.

"Of course" He managed eventually.

John smiled wider still, before closing his eyes and attempting to sleep; his brain stopped reeling when he felt the weight of an arm across his side, pulling him toward Sherlock. Without a word, John helped by pushing himself across the mattress and snuggling into Sherlock's side. Both men simultaneously took a deep breath and relaxed instantly, safe in each others presence at last.

"I should probably tell you that I know how you feel about me" Sherlock whispered tonelessly into John's cropped grey hair.

John froze, his heart rate speeding up further still, he was frightened to move a muscle so he stayed put and let out a small "Oh" of surprise.

"I should also tell you that your feelings are returned" Sherlock continued. "But I wouldn't know how to" the detective admitted quietly.

John's insides turned to custard as the relief and excitement washed over him. He tightened his hold on the detective and felt the reciprocating squeeze across his side.

"Let me do the talking then" John said quietly.

"Ok" Sherlock submitted, a rare small smile spreading his features.


End file.
